Whose Woods These Are
by temporary relief
Summary: A collection of one-shots and drabbles about BBC Sherlock. Includes all characters. Open to requests. No slash. Title from poem, 'Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening' by Robert Frost. This one: "Five times Lestrade kept himself from hitting Sherlock, and one time he didn't."
1. Lost in the Woods

**Title: **Lost in the Woods  
**Series: **Whose Woods These Are  
**Rating: **PG  
**Characters (this one): **John, Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, Donovan, Molly, Mycroft, Sherlock  
**Word Count: **703  
**Tense: **Past  
**Warning: **Spoilers for _The Hounds of Baskerville_ and _The Reichenbach Fall_  
**Summary: **Drabbles, one-shots, mini stories, and the like about everyone as they find themselves lost in strangely familiar woods. No slash. Open to requests. Title from the poem 'Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening' by Robert Frost.

* * *

John Watson was too old to be afraid of the woods. He never used to be. The woods to him were camping trips and summer holiday. They were a place for him to lose himself when he and Harry were arguing. The woods were solace.

He began to see the woods differently after Baskerville. Suddenly, they were filled with monsters and overwhelming fears that he could not escape even with a journey through hell. He was midway through his life, but he was not ready to face some of his demons. They could rot in hell for all he cared.

Greg Lestrade never enjoyed being in the woods. When he was a child, they were full of deranged werewolves and bloodthirsty vampires. As an adolescent, he was too busy with school and football to take any ventures into the woods like his friends did. Standing in the woods only reminded him of missed opportunities.

Baskerville wasn't any different. He didn't enjoy accompanying Sherlock and John into the woods that night. That familiar feeling of fear of the supernatural and longing for his missed opportunities made his bones ache. He decided that he didn't need any more woods in his life after that.

Mrs Hudson had loved the woods as a child. They made her feel free and natural. She spent many a day in her younger years chasing her mates through the woods or being chased herself. The woods were laughter and childhood wrapped up into a beautiful landscape.

Her husband had loved the woods as much as she did. They had camped during their happy years. After his execution, she never went to the woods again.

Sally Donovan hadn't much experience with woods herself, but she loved venturing into them through stories. She laughed at the naïve princess lost in the woods waiting for her prince. After closing the book, she decided that no prince would come for her. When she was little, she hoped that her prince would come, but he never did.

After Sherlock's death, she discovered that she had never been a princess. The princesses she read about had never betrayed their mentor. They were faithful and kind. No, she wasn't a princess, and she settled for an ugly stepsister. Still, she secretly hoped that there was a prince waiting for her in the woods - if she'd only ever venture there.

Molly Hooper had never been one for the woods. She liked the indoors. The woods were too alive. They twisted and turned and crept everywhere. She liked the clean inside where things weren't alive. This was why she became a pathologist. She could take care of the dead. The living were too wild for her.

After Sherlock's fall, she realised that she could take care of the living, and she could do it well. He was alive, thanks to her. Somehow, she found herself longing for the woods. She wanted to delve into the eerie trees. The woods weren't too alive anymore because the inside had become too dead.

Mycroft Holmes had always found the woods too messy. When he was younger, Sherlock would beg Mycroft to explore the woods with him. He never enjoyed accompanying his younger, curious brother into the woods. His parents urged him not to allow Sherlock to explore everything. The woods were messy because they reminded him of the conflict in his family.

The woods changed after Sherlock's death. They weren't as messy as before. They were a link to a simpler time when he still had a younger brother to muck up his life. Sitting at The Diogenes Club only made him miss the woods even more.

Sherlock Holmes had always loved the woods. They were grand and sometimes more appealing than a mind palace. He had never been lost in the woods, but he recognized the signs of being out of ones element.

He watched his blogger, his detective inspector, his 'not-your-housekeeper,' his - no not his - pawn, his pathologist, and his archenemy. They were lost in guilt, fear, compassion, naïvety, control, and memories. Each of them found themselves in the woods - lost without a way out. He was surprised how much he wished he were right along with them.


	2. Second Chances

**Title:** Second Chances  
**Series:** Whose Woods These Are  
**Rating:** PG (for potty mouths)  
**Characters (in this one):** Donovan, Lestrade, Dimmock, various others  
**Word Count:** 2451  
**Tense:** Present  
**Notes:** I really don't like how people think Lestrade would refuse to work with Sally. He believes in second chances. Why else would he work with Sherlock? Like always, enjoy.  
**Summary:** The fact that he doesn't blame her is the worst punishment of all...

* * *

The fact that he doesn't blame her is the worst punishment of all. She wants him to yell at her or shun her completely. She has practically ruined his career after all. It would be completely fine (really, it _would_) for him to treat her as she should be treated, she decides, but he doesn't.

Every single day he greets her with a smile and a warm hello. Just like he has before everything happened. She flinches at each greeting and never answers him.

Every single day he is brought into the conference room to answer for every single case he brought the Freak onto to help. He only nods impatiently at the accusations thrown his way and answers every question with a grim look on his face. Then he leaves on a break and get some coffee, making small talk with his colleagues about how City would win the League this year.

Football. This man's job is on the line, and he's talking about bloody _football_. Not that she hates football, but she hardly thinks that this is the time or the place. He waves her over, and when he asks her where she thinks Arsenal (her team) would rank in the end, she nearly hits him.

After her shift, she goes to a pub with some mates from work. They aren't really close, just close enough to buy each other a pint and laugh about what happened to them in their early days in the police.

One of them - is his name Smith? - from a different division at NSY (she can't remember which) asks how the investigation is going. She sighs and finds herself telling him everything. Her frustration spills over into the conversation as the pints came rolling. By the end of it, she has a headache that had nothing to do with the hangover she would have in the morning.

By the time she gets back to her flat, she passes out on her couch. Her alarm on her phone wakes her up too early, and she nearly throws it across the room to make it stop. Her headache from the night before has amplified, and she barely has the strength to get up let alone go to work. She has a quick shower during which she convinces herself that she really must go to work. A hangover, she decides, will not make her into a coward.

NSY has become a bloody light show - no, a bleeding light _festival_ - sometime during the night, she discovers, and she groans when she reaches her desk. A nice pile of paperwork greets her as well as the cheerful greeting of a very chipper Dimmock who had been out to the pub with her. She has half a mind to tell him where he could go, but she thinks better of it.

When she turned around to sit at her desk, she finds a very amused Detective Inspector Lestrade greeting her. She's seen her boss a lot of things, but he is never this openly amused (giddy?) with her before. She shudders.

"Donovan, drink some water. It'll help," he orders softly. Maybe he is more bemused than amused because she's never come in this hungover (and, yes, he could tell. He was more observant than the Freak gave him credit for). He looks kind then as if he isn't judging her for losing herself in one too many pints. He doesn't look angry either. She just doesn't understand him.

He walks off with a sympathetic smile toward the conference room. He has a lot to answer for because of her bloody doubts. She made him doubt. She had been so resolute in her own doubts that she turned them into convictions. The Freak had to be guilty. Now she is the guilty one. She can't even look Lestrade in the eye.

Sally is between a rock and a hard place. She knows she shouldn't feel guilty. That girl had screamed when she saw the Freak. It was the most natural connection to make that the two had met previously. And when Anderson backed her up, she thought she had a solid case. No, it was more than a thought. She was done doubting. This time she was absolutely sure. The Freak was guilty. Maybe not of kidnapping (that had been proven false once the brother had woken up and they showed him a picture of the Freak - he was scared but seemed to remember someone else telling the kid he should be scared of him) but he was guilty of something. She won't say more. After all, it isn't right in all forms of society to slander a dead man.

She reasons that maybe she needs to refer to him as Sherlock now. It was his name after all. She just can't bring herself to do that though. Maybe it's her pride (yeah, it was her pride), but she can't lower herself to that level- she cannot be wrong.

Maybe it was her pride that ruined Lestrade's career - her inability to think about the consequences for those around her. She is surprised (somewhat pleasantly) that she has not been called in for not informing the chief superintendent earlier. It seems like Lestrade has been protecting his team even after they betrayed him.

As if the man hasn't already gone through enough. His marriage has just ended. The divorce had been long and painful - too drawn out for Lestrade's tastes. Sally had watched him keep up a façade during those many months when he would postpone a meeting with the attorneys because of a case or because he had paperwork. She thinks absently that this is probably the reason that his wife called it quits.

She shakes her head because that's not really fair to her boss. He's a good boss, she's always thought so. Always working, always fair even when she or Anderson start to get on his nerves. But what is he doing? Why isn't he angry with her or at least yelling at her? She's baffled, but she doesn't spend any more time that day thinking about it. She has work to do after all.

Dimmock is talking rather loudly about something, and she supposes she needs to listen to him. He's a young DI and just loves to push her buttons just a little. A minute into listening to him, she realises that he's just talking for talking's sake because he knows she's hungover. She rolls her eyes at him, and he laughs.

Eventually, he gets bored and starts some paperwork left on his own desk, occasionally looking up at the flustered sergeant and winking. She frowns back, and he laughs deeply. Secretly, she's a little flattered, but right now she's too annoyed to care.

When someone taps her shoulder, she assumes it's Dimmock and is about to tell him to "shove off" when she realizes it's Smith from last night.

She eyes him wearily, squinting a little at the light behind him. "What do you want?"

"The enquiry - they want to speak to you," he informs her quietly.

She walks quickly into the conference room where her boss sits facing the members of the enquiry squad. She unconsciously takes a step back before bracing herself for the deluge about to come.

"Sit down, Sergeant Donovan," the stern chief superintendent himself orders her, and she does so without hesitating.

She glances at her boss who sits relaxed beside her. It isn't surprising, she realises, since he looks relaxed wherever he is. She steals another glance and recognises something else amidst the calm. He's furious. She can tell from the slight movement of his right hand to rub a ring on his left hand that no longer exists. He would do that when he was upset, she noticed long ago. Now, this coupled with the clenching of his jaw, only underscores the fact that the Freak was right.

She sees. She does not observe.

So now she will observe. She doesn't see the man who hired her three years ago. Rather, she sees a shell of him, worn out from the storm life has decided to throw at him. His eyes have not lost their warmth however grim his circumstances might be. He has hope that this will turn out for the better. Don't be an idiot, Lestrade, she finds herself thinking because she recognises the severity of his actions. She realises them, and she wishes she had stopped him sooner.

"Sergeant Donovan," the chief superintendent barks at her, and she remembers where she is: in front of an enquiry.

"Sir?"

"Your delay in informing me of Detective Inspector Lestrade's abuse of power and allowance of an amateur into high profile crimes has cost dozens of cases. There are already six appeals on these cases. Six!"

Lestrade answers before she can. "Sir, Donovan didn't have anything to do with that. I told you, it was my choice. We wouldn't have solved those cases without Sherlock. I wasn't the only senior officer who did this."

Donovan feels bad for the detective inspector because right now he's about to get dressed down, but she hasn't worked this hard to have her career end too. She says nothing as Lestrade's boss rips into him. It's almost too much for her. Something she has always appreciated about Lestrade is that he refuses to publicly humiliate one of his team like the chief superintendent is intent on doing now.

She's fairly certain that Dimmock can hear everything from his desk across the floor.

Lestrade takes it in stride. He always has. When Sherlock would verbally abuse the man, he never complained. This is the reward he gets for his years of patience and hard work. Demotion, humiliation, disrespect.

Except he deserves all of it, she decides suddenly. He may have worked hard to get where he was, but it is his own fault that he hasn't been promoted past detective inspector. If he would only follow protocol, then she wouldn't have had to turn him in.

Yes, it is his fault.

He just had to bring in the Freak. Now, the Freak is dead, and where's Lestrade? In front of an enquiry. She huffs unappreciatively at her current situation. Her eyebrows furrow, and she crosses her arms over her chest.

As soon as she thinks this, she feels guilty. Again.

"If you look at the reports, the cases are solid, sir. Every case Sherlock solved was backed up by evidence," Lestrade counters, still looking relaxed. "He figured it out first, and then the evidence concurred with what he told us."

"I don't care, Lestrade," his superior tells him bluntly.

The inspector hangs his head for a moment before facing his boss again. "Sir, Sherlock Holmes saved lives. The cabbie killer, the Chinese gang working underneath our noses, and countless others."

"Moriarty, or should I say Richard Brook?"

"If we would only dig deeper, we would find that Richard Brooke never existed," Lestrade continues to argue.

Sally wonders why she's there except to be a witness to Lestrade's metaphorical execution. Maybe they wish to punish her for the media storm unleashed upon them. Claims of corruption at the Met. The enquiry won't stop at Lestrade. They will do anything to placate the press. She will not be surprised if they clean out most of the CID.

She hopes she is not deemed unnecessary.

The chief superintendent dismisses her, and she realises that she only said one word. Lestrade glances at her as she leaves, and she notices the hurt in his eyes.

Bugger.

Dimmock grins when he sees her, but at her look (if only looks could kill...) he stops. With an exasperated huff, she slumps down into her seat, not caring if those around her notice her attitude. She realises that her position at the Met is shaky enough so she does little more than sigh and slump.

Her entire career is in jeopardy, but, now, she knows that it is of little importance. She betrayed her mentor. The rest of the day passes slowly. It drags by as she wishes more and more that she could melt in her chair.

Finally, her shift ends, and she ignores the group going out afterwards. She just wants to disappear. She expects to be awakened by a call about a murder any minute now. She is disappointed.

No call comes for her.

She sits on her couch without a glance at the telly or even the clock. Finally, she can't take the ache any longer. Locking the door behind her, she walks into her hallway and sighs. She doesn't know where she wants to go, but she knows she needs to go somewhere.

She grabs a taxi outside her flat and heads for a pub where she knows no one from work will be. The ride is uneventful until she passes St. Bart's. She finds herself asking the cab to stop. The driver is a bit flustered, but he doesn't say anything since she pays quickly. She doesn't think much of him since he finds another fare less than a block away.

She ambles up to the pavement in front and looks up, expecting to see something. She sees only the outline of the building agains the illuminated sky. The stars are hidden by the city lights, but that's okay, she decides, because she's never really cared for them.

Sliding her hands into her pockets, she continues to strain her eyes in search of something - anything. Still, she finds nothing.

"Donovan?"

Lestrade.

"Sir," she answers steadily and hopes he walks on by her.

He doesn't.

"I keep asking God for a miracle," he tells her as he took looks up at the building's top.

She ignores him.

"He hasn't answered yet."

_Just leave._

"At least, not in a way I expected."

_That's great. Just leave. I don't want to talk to you. Can't you see I'm here to get away from you?_

Silence.

"I need a sergeant I can trust," he informs her. He thrusts his hands in his pockets and continues to look up at the roof. He hasn't looked at her once.

She is confused. She betrayed him, and she tells him so.

He agrees.

"Sir, why?"

"I believe in second chances. I was given one today. I gave one to Sherlock seven years ago. I want to offer you one, if you want it."

She thinks for a moment and doesn't say anything.

"I won't keep you from transferring, but if you want to stay, you can stay."

"I don't know." She really wants to tell him that she doesn't deserve one, but she guesses that's what second chances are - grace in disguise.


	3. What's Wrong?

**Title:** What's Wrong?  
**Series:** Whose Woods These Are  
**Characters:** John, Sherlock  
**Rating:** PG  
**Word Count:** 221B (I didn't come up with this device, but I am thankful to whoever came up with it :))  
**Warnings:** None  
**Tense:** Past  
**Summary:** Sherlock forgets something very important. Not slash.

* * *

John was annoyed, Sherlock decided. It wasn't his clothes that gave it away (although the crumpled jumper did help Sherlock decide this). It was the look on the doctor's face.

The day had gone as most days did. They were boring, and people offered little entertainment value to Sherlock. He had spent most of the day informing John how bored he was. The doctor had in turn rolled his eyes and answered along the lines of "bugger off, Sherlock."

After analysing John for the better part of an hour, Sherlock could not figure out what was bothering him. It was just an ordinary (boring) Tuesday. But Tuesdays were like that. Nothing important happened on them.

Finally, he asked John.

"It's my birthday, you prat! I wouldn't expect you to remember that. I've only been your flatmate for_ two_ years! I guess it's not important enough to put in your _bloody_ mind palace," he spat.

Sherlock never liked birthdays, and he told him so. In a quieter voice he added that he was sorry. He supposed John didn't think he was serious because he laughed. It was not a happy laugh, but a forced one. Sherlock knew he was in trouble.

"I won't forget next year," he assured John.

"It doesn't matter," John decided, and he laughed heartily.

Now, Sherlock was bemused.


	4. As Far As Possible

**Title:** As Far As Possible  
**Series:** Whose Woods These Are  
**Rating:** PG  
**Characters:** Lestrade, Sherlock, John, Donovan  
**Word Count:** 2030 give or take five words.  
**Tense:** Past  
**Warnings:** Spoilers for _The Reichenbach Fall_  
**Notes:** My last little one shot before I go off to college in the morning. I apologise for any Americanisms. This is inspired by Lestrade's comments ("And as far as possible, try not to punch him") to the inspector in _A Scandal in Belgravia_.  
**Summary:** Five times Lestrade kept himself from punching Sherlock, and one time he didn't.

* * *

VI.

He should've realised when Sherlock was the only one who hadn't fled the drugs bust that something was horribly wrong. If he had known then that Sherlock would completely turn his whole world upside down, he might've just gone through with the charges even with the mysterious order that all charges be dropped.

"Sir, the gun isn't here."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "It's with the sister-in-law."

The detective inspector frowned. "What?"

"Well, it's obvious if you would just look at your crime scene."

"Shut up," Lestrade told him bluntly. He wheeled around to find a sergeant reaching for handcuffs.

"You are _completely_ incompetent."

It really didn't matter that Sherlock was high when he said it. He still hated the bugger for saying it. No one with any sense of social niceties said that to a detective inspector of all people. Especially when said detective inspector had been working on this case for the better part of a month and had nothing to show for it.

But he had said it, and Lestrade had stood in utter shock while he processed what Sherlock told him.

Still, Lestrade was not some bloke whose feelings were destroyed by a suspect's comment. Although he didn't have any idea who this fellow was, he didn't particularly care. He watched his detective sergeant shove Sherlock into the back of the BMW.

He looked down at his right hand only to find it fisted. _Hmm_, he thought absently, _I wonder when that happened_.

* * *

V.

Sherlock was not pretty when he was in withdrawal. It was a simple enough fact underscored by his propensity to throw anything within an arm's length of him. Lestrade dodged three plates and a ceramic mug before Sherlock had run out of ammunition. That mug grazed his dark hair as he hit the ground, and Lestrade counted himself fairly lucky to avoid serious damage.

He wouldn't have even been there except he received a mysterious call from Sherlock's brother insisting that he be there. Now, he understood why. Sherlock was in agony. His self-administered habit now gone, all he felt was an incredible sickness.

His wife was not happy with his choice of evening activities, and he apologised profusely in advance with the promise that he would definitely make it up to her. That night if he got back before some ungodly hour. She promptly hung up on his blubbering efforts to apologise.

"You can leave," Sherlock croaked out half-heartedly. It would take more than that to discourage Lestrade when he had been ordered to be there.

Lestrade overlooked the massive insight into the Holmes household when Sherlock's own brother wasn't there to pick up the pieces. To be honest, he was too tired to care. It wasn't as if he didn't have his own life! Not to mention, he had cases to close and an apology to his wife probably about more than not being home early like he said he would.

Sherlock attempted to sit up but was forced back down by a fit of nausea and Lestrade's hand.

"Stay there," the detective inspector ordered as he navigated his way through broken glass and ceramics toward what he thought might be a kitchen if it weren't covered in experiments. Finally, he grabbed a glass from a wayward cupboard and presented it to Sherlock a minute later about half full of water ("No, Detective Inspector, it is always full. Air occupies the other half while -" "Shut up, Sherlock!")

Apparently the effort of drinking (and correcting Lestrade) took it out of Sherlock. When he tried to sit up again, the annoyed inspector once again forced him down. The effort apparently took a lot out of Sherlock as he couldn't control his nausea.

He promptly got sick on Lestrade and had the audacity to look innocent.

If the detox didn't kill Sherlock, Lestrade would.

* * *

IV.

Lestrade regretted the day Sherlock ever got ahold of a pack of cigarettes over his preferred cocaine. While the habit might have been healthier for the consulting detective (his words not Lestrade's), it made Sherlock more annoying if that were at all possible. The habit was not healthy, however, for Lestrade who wanted to bang his head against a wall repeatedly while Sherlock experienced a nicotine depression and texted him.

Taking a long lunch, the DI stopped by Sherlock's flat in an effort to calm the genius' mind and get him to stop texting him whether by asking or destroying the mobile. Lestrade was not afraid to take drastic measures to get Sherlock to shut up. Plus, he wanted to make sure that Sherlock was still clean.

Once he stepped into the flat, he was accosted by a hyperactive (and incredibly obnoxious) Sherlock Holmes.

"Sherlock, my mobile is for emergencies. I don't care how bored you are. You don't text or call me unless it's an emergency," he explained patiently with what might have constituted as an eye roll as Sherlock ignored him. "And even then, you had better be on the verge of dying."

"Really, Detective Inspector, it is an emergency."

"No, it isn't," he told him as he started to look around the flat. He turned over a few throw blankets before he found a skull ("Sherlock, what the hell is that?" "Do use your brain."). Hoping that it was just a replica, he searched the cranial cavity for any hidden drugs. None, thankfully.

Sherlock sighed dramatically. "You won't find anything. I'm clean."

"Is your flat?" Lestrade had a feeling this would be the first of many times he would ask Sherlock this question.

He didn't get an answer in words but in the form of a bored snort. The detective inspector found his way through paper and glass and what looked to be an experiment involving what he hoped was mold. The idea of hoovering was obviously lost on Sherlock.

After maneuvering himself around what he hoped was sauce, Lestrade searched what he thought might be a bread box. He nearly dropped the whole thing when he looked inside.

"Is that a _hand_?"

"Yes, I'm see-"

"You can't have a severed hand in your flat. It's_ illegal_." Of course, Lestrade had a sinking suspicion that Sherlock would never be charged with anything and if by a miracle he was, it would never stick. His older brother seemed to take care of his little brother.

Sherlock appeared bored again and merely rolled his eyes. Legalities were unexciting and unbearably long.

"Put those back!" He shouted excitedly.

Lestrade did as he was told because he knew better than to upset Sherlock (even more than he already had) when he was in one of his moods. Detox had taught him that, and he did very much wish to keep his trousers clean.

Still, when Sherlock snatched the box from his hands, nearly pushing the inspector into something that was not a pesto sauce, Lestrade had had enough.

He wondered for a moment whether or not punching Sherlock would be worth it but eventually decided against it. After all, a drugs bust would probably be just as fulfilling.

* * *

III.

The inspector had seen Sherlock at his best and at his worst. This definitely contributed to the list of worsts. He was insufferable. Personally, he'd rather be in the middle of an argument between Sally and Anderson or in the middle of Piccadilly during morning traffic. After working one case with Dimmock, Sherlock had apparently decided that all cases must now be worked with Lestrade.

The inspector quietly reminded Sherlock that he didn't dictate which cases he was brought in to consult. Sherlock not so quietly reminded him that Lestrade quite frankly needed him and he shouldn't bore him when he's in the middle of solving his case.

John watched as Lestrade counted to ten and then to twenty before leaving the scene for a moment. He followed with a sheepish look. He felt a bit responsible for the self-professed sociopath's response to the hostage situation.

"You know he means well."

"Yeah, he does."

John grinned. "It's a compliment that he wants to work with you."

"Is it?" Lestrade was thoroughly uninterested in what Sherlock meant by what he said at that point. "I keep wondering what I could've possibly done to deserve working with him."

The doctor chuckled at this and looked over at Sherlock who was busy on the ground next to the victim.

"John, if you please," Sherlock called to his flatmate. He obeyed reluctantly. "And, Inspector, even your intellect is preferred to silence."

And there he went, insulting Lestrade. He shook his head and walked over, debating how much he wanted to hit the consulting detective. Then, he realised that somewhere in that sentence there was a compliment.

But then again, there was still an insult.

* * *

II.

Greg Lestrade honestly loved his wife.

Greg Lestrade honestly loved his job.

This fight had been the worst to date. Most of the time they didn't fight. They just didn't fight. Someone would grow silent, and finally the other would relent and apologise (in his case, grovel).

Yes, he knew that his clothes were wrinkled and two days old and that he hadn't shaved thanks to the chip-and-pin machine rejecting his card. His razor was back at his flat with his wife, which probably meant it was out in the bin by now. His mate from university (the one he had stayed with) had informed him that quite simply he wasn't a cop until his wife through him out of the house. Lestrade told him exactly where he could put his opinion. After all, this was the third time in their marriage that he had been told to leave. It didn't make him more of a cop than the first two times.

This time, unfortunately, was different. She had handed him her wedding ring when she told him to leave.

The same ring now resided in the inner pocket of his jacket along with his warrant card. He felt for it before entering the crime scene, knowing that Sherlock was sometimes prone to take the warrant card. Both were still there, much to his relief. Sherlock walked ahead of him, muttering observations about the scene as he noticed them.

"Do try to keep up, Lestrade. I know you didn't sleep much," Sherlock voiced loudly.

Lestrade gave him a dark look as several officers turned towards the commotion. Once Sherlock said something, it was very hard to forget what he said.

"Sherlock, don't," John warned quietly.

"Shut up, Sherlock," Lestrade told him at the same time as the doctor gave Sherlock the warning.

Sherlock huffed. "I'm not the only one to have noticed. It's obvious that he spent the night on someone's sofa. Not his own. His wife must've thrown him out of the-"

"Sherlock!" John interrupted before he managed to blurt out all about Lestrade's marital far-from-bliss.

"What can you tell us about the scene?" Donovan asked loudly to save some face for her boss who looked ready to murder the consulting detective.

Lestrade had never been more thankful for Donovan. Without her, he probably would've hit Sherlock despite being at a crime scene.

* * *

I.

John really shouldn't have been surprised. Honestly, the amount of abuse Lestrade took in order for Sherlock to work somewhat peaceably with his team. It was not a surprise at all that he reacted the way he did when Sherlock rose from the dead.

When Sherlock sauntered into the Yard with John on his heels, Lestrade nearly fainted. Once he recovered, he watched the rest of the Yard look on in disbelief as the dead consulting detective walked into Lestrade's office.

"You're supposed to be dead," was all Lestrade could get out.

"Yes, brilliant observation, Inspector," Sherlock answered dryly.

If Sherlock had anything else to say, he never got the chance. He never saw Lestrade until it was too late, and the next instant he was holding his nose as warm liquid dripped on his hand. He found a tissue off Lestrade's desk to hold in lieu of his hand.

John was shocked. "Really, Greg?"

Lestrade shook out his hand and winced appropriately. "I've been wanting to do that for a long time."


End file.
